959 
D773 


UC-NRLF 


IN  THE  PATHS  OF  THE  WIND 


By  Glenn  Ward  Dresbach 
THE  ROAD  TO  EVERYWHERE 


In  the  Paths  of  the  Wind 


By 
GLENN  WARD  DRESBACH 


BOSTON 

THE  FOUR  SEAS  COMPANY 
1917 


Copyright,  1917,  by 

THE  FOUR  SEAS   COMPANY 


The    Four    Seas    Press 
Boston.  Mass.,  U.  S.  A. 


TO   BETTY 


PREFATORY  NOTE 

Many  of  the  poems  included  in  this  volume  have 
appeared  in  Poetry,  The  Bookman,  Poet  Lore,  The 
Smart  Set,  The  Midland,  The  New  York  Times,  The 
Poetry  Journal,  and  Panama  Life. 

GLENN    WARD   DRESBACH 

Tyrone,  New  Mexico 
June  21,  1977 


CONTENTS 

PAGE 

THE  SOWER  WHO  REAPED  THE  SEA n 

SPRING  IN  THE  BURRO  MOUNTAINS 14 

ONE  FACE  FROM  THE  CROWD 15 

QUATRAIN    17 

O  DREAMER  OF  DREAMS 18 

ON  THE  ROAD  WITH  THE  WIND 19 

NOCTURNE    20 

WHEN  I  AM  DEAD 21 

SONG  TO  THE  DAWN  WIND 22 

OF  BATTLES    24 

TORNADO 26 

WHEN  MY  ROBE  OF  DREAMS  is  TATTERED 35 

MORN-LOVE    36 

FAUN  SONG 38 

Music  39 

THE  ROOM  OF  THE  MOONLIGHT 42 

AT  A  FACTORY  DOOR 40 

OCEAN 43 

THE  HOUSE  IN  THE  WILLOWS 45 

A  NEW  MEXICO  HILL  SONG 54 

A  MOUNTAIN  NOCTURNE 55 

DIRGE    56 

A  GIPSY  SONG  IN  THE  CITY 57 

SONG  58 

A  FATHER  AND  His  DEAD  SON 59 

LIKE  THE  WIND  IN  THE  DUNES  .  ,  61 


PAGE 

ON  THE  ROAD  WITH  THE  MORNING 62 

THE  CITY  IN  THE  DESERT 63 

SONG   74 

PURPLE 66 

INTERLUDE   67 

BEYOND  His  MEANS  68 

SHADOWS 72 

To  JULIA   73 

SONG  74 

SONG  75 

OF  DREAMS  76 


IN  THE  PATHS  OF  THE  WIND 


THE  SOWER  WHO  REAPED  THE  SEA 

The  road  was  dusty  and  the  grass  was  gray 

Along  the  roadside.     In  the  harvest  field 

That  I  was  passing  heat-waves  surged  above 

The  fallen  grain,  and  butterflies  moved  there 

Like  derelicts  of  Dreams.    An  old  man  stopped 

His  reaping  and  looked  up  with  reddened  eyes, 

Dust  from  the  grain  had  settled  on  his  face 

And  sweat  had  washed  innumerable  paths 

To  nowhere.    When  he  saw  me  watching  him 

A  smile  broke  through  the  crust,  and  then  he  laughed, 

"Go  wash  your  face  if  you'd  make  fun  o'  mine !" 

"How  is  the  crop?"  I  asked. 

He  mopped  the  sweat 

"Upon  his  brow  and  answered,  "None  too  good. 
I  sowed  too  late  in  season  for  the  drouth." 
"The  same  with  me,"  I  said. 

"What  did  you  sow?' 
He  asked  me,  looking  at  my  city  clothes. 
"Some  wild  oats  and  a  bag  o'  Dreams,"  I  said, 
And  laughed  a  little  harshly — for  the  dust. 

He  thought  awhile  and  then  his  deep  voice  said, 
"Well,  we  are  better  off  than  one  I  knew — 
The  sower  who  reaped  the  Sea,  the  bitter  Sea!" 


"Who  reaped  the  Sea?"     I  asked,  in  wonder,  then. 
"Who  reaped  the  Sea,"  he  said,  "the  bitter  Sea !" 

"I  have  not  always  lived  here,"  he  went  on, 
"In  youth  I  left  a  place  where  dikes  hold  back 
The  sea  from  little  valleys  cool  and  green. 
I  lived  in  a  small  town,  and  worked  with  iron 
Beside  a  man  of  iron.     One  day  he  hurled 
His  tools  aside — and  cursed  the  town  and  went 
Out  of  the  shop  with  hate  for  every  one. 

"Later  I  heard  that  he  had  bought  a  farm 
That  covered  a  small  valley  near  the  town. 

"His  valley  was  more  favored  than  the  rest 

That  first  year,  and  while  crops  about  us  failed, 

His  ripened  well  and  gave  a  golden  yield. 

And  while  the  town  went  hungry  he  sent  off 

His  harvest  to  another  town  that  paid 

A  price  a  little  higher.     People  went 

To  him  and  begged  to  buy  some  of  his  grain. 

'Oh  no!'  he  said;  'while  I  lived  in  your  town 

I  had  to  pay  the  prices  asked  of  me. 

I'll  sell  where  I  do  best.    That  settles  it.' 

"The  next  Spring  found  him  sowing  in  his  fields. 
The  warm  days  made  his  little  valley  green. 
The  Summer  turned  it  into  living  gold. 
And  on  the  Summer  evenings  he  would  sit 

[12] 


And  chuckle  as  the  valley  waved  at  him 

A  host  of  gleaming  hands. .  .Again  the  town 

Was  hungry  and  the  people  went  to  him 

And  begged  to  buy  his  grain.     He  laughed  at  them. 

'Once  I  was  hungry  in  your  cursed  town. 

Who  ever  helped  me?'  he  yelled  out  at  them. 

'A  few  days  and  I  shall  be  reaping,  fools, 

As  I  have  sowed.     Who  has  a  better  right?' 

"A  great  storm  broke  the  dike  the  very  night 

Before  he  was  to  reap.    We  heard  the  sea 

Rush  with  a  purring  madness  as  it  came 

Into  the  little  valley  near  the  town. 

The  morning  after,  all  the  storm  had  passed. 

Most  all  the  valley  where  he  had  his  farm 

Was  under  dark  green  water.    Just  a  few 

Tall  heads  of  grain  stuck  up — and  they  were  dead. 

The  water  rocked  them  back  and  forth.     Some  folks 

Went  down  to  see  the  valley.     And  they  found 

The  farmer,  waist-deep,  grasping  at  the  grain. 

He  did  not  see  the  people.    All  who  saw 

Said  he  was  weeping,  and  his  bitter  tears 

Made  little  splashes  on  the  bitter  sea. 

"A  woman  cried  to  him,  from  out  the  crowd, 

'You  have  a  mighty  harvest  on  your  hands. 

You  should  be  happy.    You  have  reaped  the  Sea !' 


[13] 


SPRING    IN    THE    BURRO    MOUNTAINS 

There  is  no  sudden  glory-growth  of  blooms 
Here  on  the  greening  slopes,  but  rapture  wakes 
In  many  things.    The  Wind  of  Dawn  that  takes 
From  rainbow-distance  subtle,  sweet  perfumes 
Sings  like  an  angel  through  the  vast  blue  rooms 
Of  Heaven-Near-To-Earth.     Each  tree  forsakes 
Its  listlessness  and  languor,  and  partakes 
Of  the  fair  feast  of  Sunlight.    From  the  tombs 
Of  Dreams  there  comes  a  whispering  stir  of  wings 
Responding  to  the  promise  of  the  Sun, 
And  new  dreams  come  to  join  the  common  days. 
There  is  a  glory  for  the  heart  that  sings 
Though  of  its  many  dreams  it  keeps  but  one 
To  greet  new  Springs  down  the  immortal  ways. 


ONE   FACE   FROM    THE    CROWD 

Where  have  I  seen  your  face  before? 

WThy  does  it  seem  so  out  of  place 

In  a  room  with  curtained  windows 

And  a  closed  door? 

Ah,  lovely  face 

That  a  star  has  kissed  and  the  sun, 

That  the  wind  has  touched  with  loving  fingers, 

Still  the  wonder  lingers,  lovely  one. 

I  remember.     Summer  came 

With  a  heart  of  song  and  flame. 

Boughs  were  swaying,  winds  were  playing 

Little  lutes  that  knew  your  name 

On  a  hillside  where  the  grasses 

Waved  into  the  waves  of  sea 

And  the  sea  waved  into  skies . . . 

Now  it  all  comes  back  to  me 

As  I  look  into  your  eyes 

As  I  looked  into  them  then. 

Wonder  goes  to  come  again. 

Long  ago,  long  ago 

On  the  hillside  near  the  sea 

What  did  we  talk  of? 

[15] 


Was  it  Love? 

Or  did  we  stand  there  silently? 

So  it  seems  to  me 

As  I  look  at  you  today. 

Wonder  comes,  words  go  away. 


[16] 


QUATRAIN 

This  much  I  know  of  Dreams  that  ache  and  sing 
Seeking  the  glory  of  Life's  vast  estate : 

I'd  rather  dream  a  great  dream  of  a  little  thing 
Than  dream  a  little  dream  of  something  great. 


O  DREAMER  OF  DREAMS 

O  Dreamer  of  Dreams,  have  you  heard  men  say, 
"The  glory  of  dreams  must  fade  away?" 

Then  I  know  that  you  smiled  and  I  know  that  you  said, 
"Not  until  Dreamers  of  Dreams  are  dead." 

O  Dreamer  of  Dreams,  have  you  heard  men  sigh, 
"The  Palace  of  Dreams  must  fall  from  on  high?" 

Then  I  know  that  you  spoke,  and  said  as  you  thrilled, 
"Not  while  a  Dreamer  of  Dreams  may  build." 

O  Dreamer  of  Dreams,  have  you  heard  men  say, 

"The  fight  is  lost  ere  it  starts  today?" 
Then  I  know  that  you  shouted  out  in  your  might, 

"Not  while  a  Dreamer  of  Dreams  may  fight." 

O  Dreamer  of  Dreams,  have  you  heard  men  say, 
"Even  Love  turns  from  his  own  today?" 

Then  I  know  your  heart  sang  while  the  winds  sang 

above, 
"Not  while  a  Dreamer  of  Dreams  may  love !" 


[18] 


ON  THE  ROAD  WITH  THE  WIND 

The  wind  went  up  the  road 

And  the  trees  shook  with  laughter, 

For  the  wind  was  filled  with  mirth 

And  the  gladness  of  the  Earth, 
And  I  longed  to  follow  after 
Down  the  road  and  far  away, 
Far  away  and  far  away, 
Till  my  heart  could  laugh  and  say, 

"I  have  left  behind  the  tangles 
Of  the  threads  the  Fates  have  spun, 

And  I  dance  in  golden  spangles 
Of  the  sun. 

I  have  left  behind  my  load 

And  my  withered  rose  and  lily. 
All  the  ashes  of  old  fires, 
All  the  dust  of  dead  desires 

I   have   scattered   willy-nilly. 

Down  the  road  and  far  away, 

Far  away  and  far  away, 

Rose  and  lily  bloom  today 
But  for  me,  and  horns  are  blowing 

Out  of  Elfland,  and  above 
Larks  keep  singing  that  I'm  going 

To  my  Love." 

[19] 


NOCTURNE 

Clouds,  piled  up  like  the  dunes, 
In  a  world  that  cried  for  rain, 

Shifted  by  winds  that  shifted 
The  dunes  themselves  in  the  night, 

Came  from  the  night  and  drifted 
Into  the  Night  again. 

Dreams,  restless  as  the  dunes 
Where  things  that  were  remain — 

Buried  while  the  winds   shifted 
Or  brought  once  more  to  sight — 

Wandered  from  you  and  drifted 
Back  to  you  again. 


[20] 


WHEN  I  AM  DEAD 

When  I  am  dead,  O  speak  to  me 
No  words  that  I  have  heard, 
Lest  to  my  peace  come  misery, 
Lest  my  calm  sleep  be  stirred 
With  want  of  mortal  love  again; 
But  bring  a  drop  of  April  rain, 
The  dawn-song  of  a  bird, 
The  leafy  lyric  of  a  tree, 
A  slender  flower  with  its  dew, 
That  I  may  dream — and  seem  to  be 
Dead  to  all  but  you ! 


[21] 


SONG    TO    THE    DAWN    WIND 

Rover  of  heights  where  rainbows  find  their  being, 

O  wandering  singer  of  the  House  of  God, 
Ever  unseen  and  yet  forever  seeing, 

Still  near  to  heaven  when  you  kiss  the  sod 
With  laughing  lips,  what  do  you  know  of  striving 

In  narrow  places  dark  with  sordid  things? 
What  do  you  know  of  pain,  you  that  are  thriving 

On  Beauty,  sure  forever  of  your  wings? 

O  singer  young  forever,  what  of  making 

A  palace  of  four  narrow,  cheerless  walls? 
You  have  a  vasty  mansion  when  is  breaking 

Splendor  on  heights  and  dancing  water  falls. 
O  singer  glad  forever,  what  of  singing 

After  the  songs  were  mute  a  lonely  while, 
Because  there  came  a  wondrous  blessing  winging 

Into  the  heart  out  of  a  single  smile? 

But  even  you  have  debts  to  pay  for  living, 
Spirit  of  Youth,  that  nothing  may  outlive. 

You  pass  along  the  Earth  each  morning  giving 
Gifts  to  all  things  that  in  their  turn  must  give. 

What  seeds  you  sow  are  sown  beyond  our  knowing- 

[22] 


Concerned  with  our  own  ways  while  Morning 

gleams — 

But  every  Morn  I  feel  that  you  are  sowing, 
If  nothing  else,  the  golden  seed  of  Dreams. 

Roamer  of  Roads  where  star-dust  waits  the  Morning, 

Though  many  hearts  have  longed  to  follow  you, 
To  rest  in  Lotus  Lands,  forever  scorning 

The  nearer  beauties  that  they  wander  through, 
I  do  not  wish  to  follow  you,  and  never 

Come  back  to  my  own  ways  of  sun  and  rain, 
Of  love  and  longing  and  of  brave  endeavor. 

The  World  is  yours — and  I  have  my  domain! 

But  take  me  with  you  for  a  rainbow  hour 

Beyond  myself  and  all  that  minds  may  know, 
Where  meadows  of  the  Morning  are  in  flower, 

And  I  shall  not  be  sad  if  I  may  go 
Back  to  my  own  place,  to  my  own  Dreams  crying, 

"Beauties  you  showed  to  me  I  saw  again!" 
O  deathless  Singer,  from  age  to  new  Age  flying, 

One  day  may  mark  a  life  not  lived  in  vain ! 


[23] 


OF   BATTLES 
i. 

O  when  the  fighting  spirit  dies  in  one, 
And  when  one  cries  for  only  peace  and  rest 
And  days  where  no  wild  Dreams  are  manifest, 
Beware !    The  glow  fades  deadened  in  the  Sun. 
There  is  an  urge  no  more  where  waters  run 
Shouting  their  challenge  from  the  Earth's  scarred 

breast, 

No  great  adventure  calling  from  the  West! 
When  dies  the  Fighting  Spirit,  Dreams  are  done ! 

On  to  the  battle,  Youth.    The  battle  pays. 
War  lasts  forever  in  the  growth  of  things, 
The  change  of  seasons,  and  the  Winds  of  God. 
War  lasts  forever  in  a  heart  that  stays 
True  to  a  Dream  that  fights  to  keep  its  wings 
Out  of  the  dust  where  broken  men  must  plod. 

II. 

Since  one  must  die,  why  die  before  Death's  hand 
Shuts  off  the  Sun  and  Moon  and  seals  one's  eyes 
To  smiles  or  tears,  rainbows  or  stormy  skies, 
And  all  one  hoped  sometime  to  understand? 

[24] 


O  living  Death,  O  life  in  empty  land, 

When  one's  heart  has  no  more  a  voice  that  cries 

A  challenge  to  the  dullness  and  the  lies 

Of  peaceful  days,  no  voice  of  great  command. 

Give  me  a  fighting  chance  for  Victory 
And  I  can  better  bear  the  great  defeat 
Than  if  I  leave  my  Sword  of  Dreams  to  rust. 
O  Life  be  praised!     I  thrill  that  I  can  be 
Here  in  the  days  whose  bugle  calls  are  sweet, 
With  Dreams  to  fight  for,  and  to  love,  to  trust ! 


[25] 


TORNADO 
i. 

All  through  the  early  afternoon  the  airs 

Were  hot  and  heavy  as  if  old  despairs 

Had  burdened  all  their  gladness.     And  each  tree 

Seemed  stricken  with  a  touch  of  mystery. 

Weird,  half-heard  whispers  came  from  leaf  and  grass. 

Dull,  listless  clouds  dragged  onward  in  a  mass 

Over  lack-lustre  skies,  and  far  away 

The  whelps  of  Thunder-lions  rolled  in  play. 

ii. 

The  prairie  stretched  for  miles  about  the  place 
Where  Andrew  stood.    Strange  shadows  filled  his  face 
As  he  looked  on  his  house,  the  few  tall  trees, 
The  garden  withered  so  that  even  bees 
Could  find  no  profit  there,  the  yard  that  laid 
Sun-parched  and  useless.     For  no  children  played 
There  through  the  time  that  he  had  toiled  to  make 
It  hold  some  beauty  even  for  the  sake 
Of  olden  dreams.  .  .Often  his  wife  would  say, 
"Such  work  will  never  make  this  old  farm  pay." 

Now  as  he  gazed,  his  wife  came  to  the  door. 
She  stood  there  plain  as  the  plain  dress  she  wore, 

[26] 


A  woman  tall  and  heavy-boned,  with  eyes 

Lacking  in  something  like  the  heavy  skies 

They  gazed  upon.    The  dull  light  on  her  face 

Was  like  the  light  upon  a  desert  place. 

"It's  going  to  storm,"  she  called.     "Go  drive  the  cow 

Into  the  barn.    Don't  you  be  standing  now 

Like  all  you  have  to  do  is  look  around 

For  flowers  that  will  not  bloom  on  this  ground." 

Andrew  stared  at  her  and  his  sunken  cheek 
Grew  red  beneath  its  tan,  for  being  meek 
Could  never  please  him.     Still,  he  hated  strife 
And  tried  to  turn  his  anger  from  his  wife 
Against  the  land  that  had  so  often  lied 
To  him  through  days  when  all  his  crops  had  dried 
In  the  hot  winds,  leaving  him  always  poor 
While  the  new  seasons  offered  some  new  lure. 
And  while  his  wife  stood  there  with  wrinkled  brow 
He  turned  in  silence  to  drive  in  the  cow 
From  the  dry  pasture  and  the  promised  rain, 
And  as  he  went  he  lived  his  life  again. 

in. 

From  boyhood  Life  to  him  had  always  seemed 
A  muddled  thing,  although  sometimes  he  dreamed 
Of  great  endeavor,  but  the  dream  soon  passed. 
Each  new  Dream  came  less  strenuous  than  the  last. 
And  poverty  was  nothing  new,  and  so 
He  went  a  careless  way,  seeming  to  grow 

[37] 


Like  city  plants  set  high  above  the  street 
At  someone's  window,  half -drooped  in  the  heat. 
Each  task  he  tried  was  worse  than  one  before, 
Not  worth  his  while,  not  worth  the  ache  in  store. 
And  so  he  came  to  hunger  for  the  fields 
In  places  where  he  heard  of  golden  yields, 
For  brooks  and  trees  and  rain  scented  with  bloom 
And  for  the  sunlight  and  the  peaceful  gloom. 
He  was  a  dreamer  with  no  tools  to  build 
The  lofty  castle  that  vain  vision  willed, 
And  so  he  seemed  to  fail,  though  meaning  well, 
For  reasons  that  his  fellows  could  not  tell . . . 
Then  one  clear  day  in  Spring,  sick  of  his  load 
Of  emptiness,  he  followed  a  long  road 
Out  to  the  farms  where  it  was  time  to  sow. 
Five  years !    And  now  it  seemed  an  Age  ago ! 

VI. 

Five  years  ago  he  came  along  the  lane, 
That  stretched  before  him  now,  after  a  rain 
Had  made  the  scrubby  willows  sweet  and  new. 
And  he  remembered  how  Life  thrilled  him  through 
With  a  new  gladness,  as  if  from  the  Spring 
He  gained  the  something  that  had  made  birds  sing 
Along  his  way.     And  new  hope  stirred  in  him 
Till  all  the  muddled  past  seemed  growing  dim 
In  distance  whence  he  came  praying  to  find 
More  strength  of  body  and  more  peace  of  mind 
Than  toil  within  a  smoke-hung  city  gave. 
And  as  he  neared  the  house  his  heart  grew  brave. 


Five  years  ago ! . . .  Old  Wynne  came  to  the  dooi 
And  greeted  him  and  offered  him  a  chore 
For  food  and  lodging  for  the  night.    Next  day 
He  had  arranged  with  the  old  man  to  stay 
To  help  upon  the  farm.    And  Summer  passed 
And  crops  were  in  before  he  knew  how  fast 
Affection  bound  him  to  the  quiet  place 
And  to  the  old  man's  daughter  in  whose  face 
He  seemed  to  read  a  promise  and  a  lure. 
So  he  remained  although  his  pay  was  poor. 

v. 

The  next  Spring  old  Wynne  let  him  take  the  lead 
At  tending  crops,  and  Andrew,  taking  heed 
Of  Kate,  the  farmer's  daughter,  worked  his  best, 
And  was  as  good  a  farmer  as  the  rest 
Who  tilled  the  soil  for  miles  on  either  side. 
Then  one  night  after  harvest  old  Wynne  died, 
And  Kate  was  left  alone  and,  when  her  woe 
Had  passed  its  storm,  Andrew  begged  her  to  go 
With  him  to  town  and  there  become  his  wife. 
And  she  clung  to  him  and  a  strange  new  life 
Seemed  waking  in  him  as  he  stroked  her  hair, 
And  looked  into  her  eyes  and  found  them  fair, 
And  kissed  her  lips  and  found  them  like  a  fire 
Waking  the  half -cold  ashes  of  Desire. 

When  they  were  married  they  began  to  do 
Old  tasks  upon  the  farm,  but  all  seemed  new. 
The  winds  were  softer  there,  even  the  trees 

[29] 


Had  learned  new  whispered  sounds,  and  mysteries 

Of  sun  and  moon  came  over  them  until 

Their  narrow  world  seemed  to  awake  and  fill 

With  unguessed  wonders.     So  they  planned  to  make 

The  farm  pay  double  for  each  other's  sake, 

To  grow  quite  well-to-do  and,  later  blessed 

By  all  good  comforts,  settle  down  and  rest 

In  some  small  town  near  by,  as  farmers  do 

When  they  grow  old  and  worldly  goods  accrue. 

VI. 

The  drought  came  then.     Two  years  they  struggled 

through, 

Two  hopeful,  anxious  years  with  work  to  do, 
And  then  another  year  that  seemed  to  be 
Filled  full  of  doubt  and  strife  and  misery. 
And  so  time  passed  and  they  were  always  poor, 
Struggling,  and  almost  hating,  while  the  lure 
Of  the  new  seasons  led  them.     So  they  lost 
Their  faith  and  understanding,  and  the  cost 
Was  bitterness  that  rose  between  them  so 
It  grew  like  weeds  where  Love  had  ceased  to  grow. 

VII. 

When  Andrew  drove  the  cow  along  the  lane 
He  tried  to  whistle  while  great  drops  of  rain 
Made  little  clouds  of  dust  on  the  dry  field. 
Then  suddenly  the  trees  and  grasses  reeled 
*  In  a  wild  wind  that  seemed  to  rend  the  sky. 

[30] 


Out  in  the  west  dark  banks  of  clouds  loomed  high, 

Then  toppled  over  and  began  to  roll, 

Maddened,  through  space,  held  in  the  storm's  control. 

Even  the  cow  that  Andrew  drove  became 

Aware  of  danger  and,  though  old  and  lame, 

The  last  of  the  good  herd  he  sold  to  pay 

For  ravages  when  drought  had  held  its  sway, 

She  tossed  her  head,  and,  bellowing,  rushed  to  gain 

An  over-hanging  bank  that  turned  the  rain. 

"Well,  go  then,  you  old  devil,"  Andrew  said, 

And  running  to  the  house  he  bowed  his  head 

Against  the  storm.     Then  through  the  rain  he  heard 

His  wife  call  sharply,  and  with  vision  blurred 

By  wind  and  rain,  he  saw  her  at  the  gate 

And  heard  her  cry,  "Andrew,  run  back.     Don't  wait 

For  me.     Tornado  coming!    There's  a  place 

Down  by  the  creek."    Her  hair  half-veiled  her  face 

As  she  came  running.    Andrew  seized  her  arm, 

Filled  with  concern,  and  partly  with  alarm, 

And  then  they  ran  together,  scrambled  under 

The  over-hanging  bank,  and  over  thunder 

They  heard  the  solid  roar  of  the  storm. 

Near  by  the  cow  lolled  quite  as  calm  and  warm 

As  any  cow  should  be,  munching  her  cud. 

And  Andrew  and  his  wife  laughed  in  the  mud 

Close  to  the  damp  clay  of  the  bank,  nor  knew 

The  reason  why  the  laugh  rang  loud  and  true. 

[31] 


Then  they  looked  out  above  the  bank  and  saw 

A  sight  of  mingled  horror  and  of  awe. 

A  hell-soot  cloud  shaped  funnel-like  drew  near 

Trailing  upon  the  ground,  and  they  could  hear 

The  crash  of  trees  as  it  came  near  the  house. 

Then  as  a  lion  could  toss  aside  a  mouse 

The  great  cloud  hurled  their  house  in  wreckage  high, 

Splintered  the  barn,  and  then  went  tearing  by 

Upon  the  prairie,  leaving  in  its  wake 

Ruin  and  desolation . . .  Some  hearts  break 

Seeing  the  work  of  years  so  hurled  aside 

To  nothingness,  while  Life's  needs  still  abide. 

VIII. 

Andrew  said  to  his  wife,  "Well,  it  is  past. 
This  is  our  greatest,  may  it  be  our  last 
Affliction  on  this  cursed  ground,"  and  tears 
Burned  in  his  eyes.     He  thought  of  troubled  years 
Strained  through  for  nothing,  and  he  bowed  his  head. 
His  wife  reached  out  her  arms.    No  word  was  said. 
He  felt  her  hot  lips  on  his  cheek.     He  filled 
With  a  great  wonder,  as  if  God  had  willed 
New  gladness  wake  in  him  instead  of  pain. 
And  so  they  stood  forgetting  wind  and  rain. 

He  heard  his  wife  say,  "While  you're  safe  I  care 
But  little  for  the  house."    It  seemed  the  air 
Became  a  rare  wine,  singing  at  each  breath, 
And  what  had  been  so  near  despair  and  death 

[32] 


Was  now  a  new  life  stirring  wild  and  strong 
Within  his  being,  in  a  place  of  song. 
His  wife  had  said  few  words  of  love  the  while 
They  worked  and  doubted.    Seldom  came  a  smile 
That  he  could  claim  his  own.    But  could  he  know 
Her  heart  grew  numb  to  see  him  suffer  so 
Upon  the  farm,  and  that  he  did  not  give 
The  little  kindness  that  makes  kindness  live? 


IX 

And  when  he  kissed  her  and  looked  on  her  face 
It  was  no  longer  like  a  desert  place. 
Flowers  awoke,  and  sweetness  lingered  there 
The  while  he  touched  with  tender  hands  her  hair 
Blown  by  the  storm.    He  seemed,  at  last,  to  see 
Beauty  is  mostly  what  one  makes  it  be. 

And  while  they  stood  bound  close  by  Love  again 
The  wind  ceased  and  the  rushing  troops  of  rain 
Left  them  behind.    Dusk  had  begun  to  fall 
And  the  world  seemed  all  intimate  and  small. 

Then  Andrew  said,  "Tomorrow  we  will  build 
A  shack  up  there  and  have  it  amply  filled 
With  Love  and  sunlight.    Maybe  Life  will  be 
Much  better  now  if  you  care  but  for  me 
And  I  care  but  for  you — instead  of  gain 
From  crops  that  dry  up  for  the  lack  of  rain." 

[33] 


Said  Kate,  "We  are  not  paupers  even  now. 
The  storm  forgot  to  take  along  our  cow." 

And  Andrew  said,  "It  takes  tornado  weather 

To  wreck  a  house — and  bring  two  hearts  together." 

So  arm-in-arm  they  went  along  the  lane 
Back  to  the  wreckage  scattered  on  the  plain. 
While  Love,  who  cares  for  neither  wealth  nor  place, 
Led  them  afar  into  a  starry  space. 


[34] 


WHEN  MY  ROBE  OF  DREAMS  IS  TATTERED 

When  my  robe  of  Dreams  is  tattered, 

If  ever  it  is  so, 
And  some  one  seems  to  scorn  it, 

O  I  would  have  him  know 
That  it  was  torn  on  points  of  stars 

And  gold  of  the  rainbow. 


MORN-LOVE 

When  youthful  Dawn  Wind  wakens 
In  mountains  of  the  morning, 

The  Willow  in  the  valley 
Stirs,  and  begins  adorning 

Herself  to  meet  her  lover, 
While  perfumes  cling  and  thicken, 
And  all  earth-pulses  quicken 

In  meadows  of  the  clover. 

She  spreads  her  silver  tresses, 

Her  cool  arms  softly  gleaming. 
She  looks  into  the  brooklet 

And  smiles  for  all  her  dreaming. 
Thrilling  with  song  and  laughter 

She  waits  the  Dawn  Wind's  coming ; 

Her  fresh  young  lips  keep  humming 
Of  joy  the  World  gropes  after. 

And  when  the  Dawn  Wind  dances 

Across  the  clover  to  her, 
The  madness  and  the  gladness 

Of  morn-love  dances  through  her. 

[36] 


Her  soft  arms  clasp  her  lover, 
Her  lips  to  his  keep  clinging 
While  the  heart  of  morn  is  singing 

In  the  meadows  of  the  clover. 

O  woe  and  wonder  of  it! 

The  Willow  loves  him  only, 
And  when  he  leaves  her,  singing, 

Though  she  is  still  and  lonely, 
She  knows  he  is  her  lover — 

And  so  her  love  discloses 

No  envy  of  wild  roses 
In  meadows  of  the  clover. 


[37] 


FAUN   SONG 

The  grasses  billow  in  the  wind 

Fragrance-laden, 
The  maiden  Willow  sighs  to  see 

The  Moon-Maiden. 
Lovely  things  of  Earth  and  Heaven 
Meet  and  greet  and  stars  are  seven. 
Come  with  dancing  feet ! 


[38] 


MUSIC 

Oh!  I  have  heard  you  in  vast  silences 
Of  mountains  and  of  deserts;  I  have  heard 
You  in  the  forest  where  no  leaf  was  stirred, 
And  I  have  found  you  in  white  distances 
Of  moonlight  on  the  sea  where  wonder  is 
Too  well  expressed  for  sounded  note  or  word, 
And  I  have  known  you  when  an  unseen  bird 
Shook  song  and  dew  drops  from  a  dream  of  his. 

But  never  did  I  know  all  of  your  sweetness 
Until  her  voice  came  to  me  in  the  night 
Of  swarming  stars  and  pagan  winds.    O  then 
You  spoke  with  new  expression  and  completeness 
For  me  alone.    And  when  Death  snuffs  the  Light 
I  shall  not  wake  till  speaks  her  voice  again. 


[39] 


AT  A  FACTORY  DOOR 

I  wish  I  could  be  a  piper 

With  power  to  lead  away 
The  children,  toiling  and  dreaming 

When  they  should  dream  and  play, 

To  a  place  where  grasses  sway 
And  a  mountain  stream  is  gleaming 
Under  the  skies  that  are  gleaming 

With  the  scattered  gold  of  Day. 

I  wish  I  could  be  a  piper 

With  power  to  let  them  see 
The  green  boughs  that  are  swaying 

On  hills  where  winds  are  free. 

Where  the  music  of  a  tree 
Seems  made  for  children  playing, 
For  glad-eyed  children  playing 

On  the  Road  to  Arcady. 

And  I  am  but  a  dreamer 

Who  can  give  but  a  song 
To  the  children  toiling  and  waiting 

For  God  to  right  the  wrong. 

O  may  the  song  ring  strong 

[40] 


Over  sounds  of  wheels  they  are  hating, 
Where  hearts  are  aching  and  hating, 
And  bear  their  dreams  along 

To  places  sweet  with  silence 
And  the  hush  of  growing  things, 

Where  the  clearest  streams  are  flowing 
And  the  lark  is  glad  for  wings, 
To  places  where  Earth  sings 

A  song  for  the  Spirit  growing, 

For  the  Spirit  groping  and  growing 
Till  its  great  challenge  rings. 


[41] 


THE  ROOM  OF  THE  MOONLIGHT 

I  call  this  the  Room  of  the  Moonlight, 
For  only  the  moonlight  came 

To  me  in  the  night  and  silence 
When  dreams  called  out  your  name. 

0  the  moonlight  came  and  lingered 
Hopeful,  it  seemed,  and  kind — 

Then  lonely  and  pale  it  wandered 
Back  to  the  arms  of  the  wind. 

And  often  I  watched  the  moonlight 

Along  the  still  bed  creep, 
White  flame  over  white  of  your  pillow— 

And  it  would  not  let  me  sleep. 

1  call  this  the  Room  of  the  Moonlight, 
For  I  saw  in  this  very  place 

A  dream  come  true  in  its  beauty — 

When  the  moonlight  found  your  face ! 

Glory  creeping  to  glory, 

I  saw  the  moonlight  creep 
To  you,  in  a  night  of  magic 

Too  powerful  for  sleep ! 

[42] 


OCEAN 

O  once  almighty  vast  of  Mystery, 

O  restless  Power  of  wide  glooms  and  gleams, 

Still  burns  a  wonder  that  Man  made  you  be 
A  bearer  of  his  Dreams! 

Once  over  you  only  the  winds  had  passed 

And  nameless  monsters  stirred  your  silent  deeps. 

Now  all  your  ways  are  marked  with  ships.     At  last 
Beneath  your  breast  there  creeps 

The  steel  that  seems  to  live,  as  silently 

As  monsters  crept  into  a  hidden  lair. 
All  that  you  are  is  known.    And  Man  would  see 

The  unreached  heights  of  Air! 

And  yet  you  are  as  powerful  as  when 

Man  trembled  on  your  shores.     The  endless  moan 
Of  you  went  trembling  through  him.    Ah,  but  then 

You  were  a  vast  Unknown ! 

And  though  you  rose  in  anger,  and  white  foam 

Leaped  from  bared  teeth  on  reefs  where  ships  were 
hurled, 

Man  came  again,  a  wanderer  from  home, 
Until  he  claimed  the  World. 

[43] 


O  Beautiful,  yet  cruel  in  beauty,  now 

Man  sees  your  beauty,  blind  with  fear  no  more. 

Lifter  of  hearts  by  one  touch  on  the  brow, 
Why  break  them  as  before? 

Yet  nothing  you  may  ever  say  or  do 

Can  drive  Man  from  you  till  the  greedy  sky 

Has  sucked  you  up — and  days  all  wild  and  new 
Mark  vasts  grotesque  and  dry. 

For  Man  has  made  a  playground  and  a  mart 
Upon  you,  and  his  battlefields  are  spread 

Across  you  and  deep  down  into  your  heart, 
Restless,  uncomforted! 

O  waves  that  wash  the  white  feet  of  the  Moon 
When  first  she  rises  from  her  place  of  rest, 

Reach  out  with  a  soft  touch  and  soon,  O  soon, 
Join  hands  of  East  and  West, 

Join  hands  of  North  and  South  not  but  in  trade 
But  in  a  Brotherhood  like  no  men  knew 

When  their  great  war  on  the  Unknown  was  made . . . 
With  Dreams  they  conquered  you! 

With  Dreams  they  conquered  you!   And  can  it  be 
The  Dreams  have  failed  their  ancient,  changeless 

trust, 

To  fall,  at  last,  upon  new  Mystery 
And  new  Unknowns  of  Dust? 

[44] 


THE   HOUSE  IN   THE   WILLOWS 

i. 

The  sudden  twilight  put  dark  shadow-cloaks 

Upon  the  trees  dripping  with  recent  rain. 

The  Summer  night  came  like  a  weary  woman 

In  mourning,  with  a  breath  of  sighs,  into 

The  southern  valley  where  I  lost  my  way. 

And,  feeling  the  great  loneliness  man  feels 

At  such  a  time,  I  went  on  stubbornly, 

Just  to  keep  going,  and  I  came  at  last 

Upon  a  group  of  willows  and  a  house 

With  no  light  in  its  windows.     Shadows  clung 

About  the  place,  and  there  was  not  a  sound 

But  whispers  of  the  willows  and  the  stir 

Of  sluggish  waters  somewhere  in  the  gloom. 

I  mounted  creaky  stairs  and  stood  awhile 

Upon  the  porch.    A  bat  swerved  dizzily 

From  out  of  the  shadows.    Not  another  sign 

Of  life  I  saw  about  the  place.     I  tried 

The  door.     It  opened  slowly,  with  complaint 

Of  rusted  hinges,  on  a  narrow  hall. 

I  called  into  the  gloom  of  it  and  heard 

My  voice  grow  into  something  strange  and  loud; 

And  half  afraid,  I  laughed  at  my  own  fears, 

[45] 


And  heard  my  laugh  go  crazy  as  a  bat 

Into  the  darkness  of  the  musty  hall. 

I  struck  a  match  and  entered.    To  my  right 

A  door,  half  open,  led  into  a  room 

With  dusty  floor  and  heavy  earthy  smells. 

Two  half-burned  candles  stood  in  tarnished  sticks 

Upon  a  table  and  I  lighted  them 

And  looked  about  the  room.     A  fireplace 

With  scattered  ashes,  and  a  narrow  couch 

Beside  a  window  with  the  curtains  drawn 

Was  all  I  saw  at  first.    I  turned  about 

And  struck  against  a  wicker  rocking  chair 

That  stood  beside  the  table.     I  sat  down 

In  it  for  lack  of  something  else  to  do. 

Idly  I  looked  about  the  cheerless  walls. 

And  whispers  of  the  willows  came  to  me 

And  stir  of  sluggish  waters  in  the  gloom. 

n. 

I  must  have  s!ept,  for  I  remember  now 
I  woke  from  troubled  dreams  and  heard  a  sound 
As  if  a  curtain  rustled  at  the  window. 
And  then  I  saw  a  woman  somewhat  old, 
Either  in  years  or  age  that  sorrow  gives, 
Sitting  upon  the  couch.     Her  dark  eyes  gazed 
Into  the  fireplace.     Her  slender  hands 
Were  clasped  so  tightly  that  the  fingers  looked 
Like  ivory  on  the  black  dress  she  wore. 
She  was  not  beautiful,  but  as  I  stared 

[46] 


I  saw  such  charm  as  only  years  can  give 
When  all  the  dross  of  Dreams  is  burned  away 
And  some  great  Dream  or  Love  remains  to  touch 
The  features  to  new  power  and  new  life. 

"Madam,"  I  said,  "forgive  me.     I  intrude 
Upon  your  revery.    I  did  not  know 
You  were  about  the  place,  so  still  it  was 
When  I  came  in." 

She  turned  her  eyes  to  me, 
Then  in  a  voice  toned  with  the  willows  said, 
"I'm  only  sorry  that  the  house  affords 
So  little  comfort  for  a  weary  guest. 
If  you  will  listen  I  shall  tell  you  why." 

My  heart  was  like  an  instrument  that  knew 
Only  the  single  sad  note  of  her  voice. 

"It  was  a  southern  springtime,"  she  went  on, 
"When  mocking  birds  were  singing  and  their  songs 
Were  everywhere,  that  he  came  down  the  road 
To  father's  house.     The  sun  was  on  his  hair 
And  he  had  nothing  but  his  violin 
And  Youth  and  Dreams.    I  loved  him  then  with  love 
That  could  not  run  or  hide — and  so  I  did. 

"My  father  met  him  at  the  door.     They  talked — 
And  one  voice  reached  me  like  a  lovely  song. 
Then  there  was  silence.    Father  said  to  me, 

[47] 


When  I  went  back  into  the  room  again, 
'That  fellow  wanted  some  place  he  could  spend 
A  month  or  two.    I  sent  him  up  the  road 
To  find  a  place.    I  can't  be  bothered  here 
With  him  and  all  his  airs  and  lengthy  hair/ 
My  mother  laughed — and  I  was  very  still. 

"The  next  day  I  went  to  a  neighbor's  house 

Upon  an  errand.    Near  the  house  I  heard 

His  violin  singing  of  unborn  Springs. 

We  met  beneath  the  trees.    The  mocking  birds 

All  seemed  to  know  that  Love  was  there  .  ,  .    And  so 

Spring  passed  in  glory  and  we  often  met 

In  secret  places  sweet  with  growing  things. 

We  loved  each  other  dearly.    Father  learned 

About  it  and  forbade  us  our  great  joy. 

"In  brief,  we  ran  away  and,  in  a  city 

Not  very  far  from  here,  were  married.     Then 

My  husband  looked  for  work  and  found  it  soon — 

And  we  were  very  happy  .  .  .    Afterwhile 

He  started  work,  at  nights,  upon  a  song 

That  haunted  him.     Often  he  worked  all  night. 

"Before  it  was  completed  I  grew  ill 

And  doctors  said  it  was  my  lungs.     They  said 

I  must  live  in  the  country  for  a  time. 

We  had  no  money,  so  my  husband  worked 

Like  mad  upon  his  song  and  finished  it. 

[48] 


He  kissed  me,  I  remember,  and  went  out 

To  sell  the  song.      That  night  when  he  came  home 

I  heard  him  singing.     He  came  in  the  room 

And  showed  a  roll  of  bills  to  me.     He  said 

A  publisher  had  bought  the  song  at  once. 

"Not  until  long  months  after  did  I  learn 
That  he  had  borrowed  money  from  a  friend, 
And  brought  me  part  of  it,  and  with  a  part 
Had  taken  life  insurance,  fearing  that 
If  he  should  die  no  one  would  care  for  me. 

"Later  we  left  the  city  and  came  here 

And  rented  this  small  house.     My  husband  said 

That  he  would  care  for  me  while  I  was  ill 

And  work  upon  a  new  song.     I  grew  worse. 

And  he  kept  growing  thinner  all  the  time. 

I  wrote  to  mother.    Father  answered  me. 

He  said,  in  part,  I  was  no  child  of  his, 

And  that  I  might  have  married  well.     He  blamed 

My  husband  for  his  poverty  and  called 

Him  coward,  thief  and  other  cruel  names. 

My  husband  saw  the  letter.    His  dark  eyes 

Filled  slowly  with  great  tears.     He  sat  and  looked 

Out  of  the  window.     Willows  all  about 

Were  sighing.    After  that  he  seemed  to  be 

More  troubled  .  .  .    Since  I  was  so  very  weak 

His  music  made  me  nervous,  so  he  went 

Down  by  the  stream  tc  work  upon  his  song. 

[49] 


Late  in  the  night,  when  gray  mists  hovered  near, 
I  heard  the  faint,  sweet  sorrow  whispering, 
Like  willows,  from  his  violin.     One  night 
He  came  into  this  room  and  wrote  the  notes 
On  paper  not  as  white  as  his  poor  face. 

"Next  day  he  seemed  more  cheerful,  and  he  took 

His  song  to  the  small  village  down  the  road 

And  sent  it  to  a  publisher.     He  brought 

A  doctor  back  with  him,  and  told  me  now 

I  could  have  better  care — since  he  would  have 

Money  for  all  our  needs  .  .  .    The  song  came  back 

With  nothing  but  a  little  printed  note. 

He  stared  at  it  a  long  time;  then  he  hurled 

It  where  these  ashes  are  and  looked  at  me 

With  awful  eyes.    After  a  time  he  spoke. 

He  told  me  of  his  debts,  that  all  the  money 

He  borrowed  had  been  spent.    And  he  cried  out, 

'I  am  a  coward,  as  your  father  said, 

Or  I  would  do  more  for  you.'     Then  he  came 

And  bowed  beside  me  on  this  couch  and  wept. 

'If  I  were  dead  you'd  be  well-off,'  he  moaned. 

/ 

"I  could  not  comfort  him.     I  was  too  deep 

In  my  own  pit  of  sorrow  and  despair. 

I  thought  that  all  the  world  was  wrong.       My  faith 

In  him  was  broken  for  the  time.    He  seemed 

To  have  failed  me.    When  I  looked  up  at  last 

He  was  not  there.    A  little  later  came 

[50] 


An  old  nurse  from  the  village,  and  she  said 
My  husband  sent  her,  saying  he  would  be 
Away  from  home  awhile.     Towards  evening 
A  neighbor  rushed  into  the  house.    He  said 
My  husband  had  been  bitten  by  a  snake 
Sometime  that  afternoon  and  had  been  found 
Dead  by  the  stream  among  the  willows  .  .  .    Now 
I  well  remember  that  he  told  me  of 
The  water  moccasins  that  crept  about 
Among  the  grasses  by  the  sluggish  stream. 
And  how  he  hated  them!    He  used  to  say 
The  sight  of  one  sent  shivers  up  his  spine. 

"When  I  had  heard  that  he  was  dead  I  swooned 
And  knew  no  one  for  days.    They  buried  him 
Down  in  the  village  churchyard,  while  I  tossed 
In  fever,  crying  out  in  misery. 

"When  I  was  stronger  the  old  nurse  told  me 

The  snake  had  bitten  him  upon  the  wrist 

And  that  they  found  him,  with  his  violin 

Clasped  to  his  breast,  stretched  out  beside  the  stream 

Under  the  willows . .  .  All  too  well  I  knew 

How  he  had  died.    And  with  an  irony 

Of  Fate  my  strength  came  back  until  at  last 

I  could  walk  down  beside  the  stream  where  he 

Had  died  for  me,  and  hear  the  willows  sing 

The  lost  song  of  his  silent  violin. 

[51] 


"I  did  not  want  for  care.    His  death  had  sent 
His  life  insurance  to  my  aid  when  he 
Thought  there  was  nothing  else  to  do  but  die. 
OGod.        OGod!.    ." 


in. 

Her  voice  seemed  suddenly 
To  be  a  part  of  whispers  that  I  heard 
From  willows  all  about.    I  started  up 
With  strange  fear  over  me.    And  she  was  gone. 
The  candles,  burned  down  to  their  sockets,  cast 
A  sickly  light  about  the  room.    I  called. 
My  own  voice  frightened  me.     It  crept  away 
Into  the  musty  hall  and  lost  itself 
Among  the  whispers  of  the  willows  there. 
I  rushed  out  of  the  room — and  after  me 
Came  whispers  of  the  willows,  till  at  last 
I  found  a  road  and,  down  the  road,  a  house. 
Dawn  was  just  blooming  and  I  heard  near  by 
A  mocking  bird  that  sang  as  if  the  world 
Had  known  no  sorrow.    At  the  house  I  stopped. 
An  old  man  was  already  at  the  well 
Drawing  some  water.     I  went  up  to  him. 


"Who  lives,"  I  asked,  "in  that  house,  up  the  road, 
With  all  the  willows  'round  it?" 

Not  a  word 

[52] 


He  answered  me.    He  stood  and  blinked  at  me. 
And  then  he  muttered,  as  if  to  himself, 
"No  one  has  lived  there  since  they  found  her  dead 
Of  snake  bite  where  the  willows  meet  the  stream." 


[53] 


A   NEW   MEXICO   HILL-SONG 

Out  where  only  the  high  hills  wall  us 

In  the  lap  of  a  world  that  is  full  of  sun, 
Out  where  the  hill-winds  dance  and  call  us 

On  for  adventurings  just  begun, 
We  feel  the  thrill  that  Spring  is  waking 
And  every  path  is  worth  the  taking, 
Far  from  the  world  where  hearts  are  breaking 
In  the  race  that  is  never  won. 

Out  here  joy  comes  for  the  asking 
And  every  tree  is  a  friend  today, 
And  the  lazy  rabbit  dreaming  and  basking 

Only  from  habit  runs  away. 
And  hand  in  hand  we  follow  the  turning 
Of  any  path,  and  the  wild  hills'  learning 
Makes  us  wise  and  sets  us  yearning 
With  open  skies  to  stay. 

Out  here  dreams  are  worth  the  dreaming, 

Where  every  wind  has  a  dream  to  sing, 
And  just  ahead  is  a  glory  gleaming, 

Behind,  some  sweet  remembered  thing. 
And  I  feel  that  all  the  brooding  sorrow 
Of  hearts  would  pass  if  they  came  tomorrow 
And  followed  our  trails  and  dared  to  borrow 
Gold  from  the  stores  of  Spring. 

[54] 


A  MOUNTAIN  NOCTURNE 

Folded  are  wings  of  the  winds; 

No  wandering  cloud-ship  mars 
With  motion  a  sky  that  sleeps 

In  the  singing  silence  of  stars. 

Folded  are  wings  of  my  dreams 

And  closed  are  the  gates  of  unrest — 

And  I  would  not  stir  in  the  night 

From  your  lips  and  the  spell  of  your  breast. 

As  still  as  the  mountains  are 

We  sit  in  a  world  that  is  young — 

But  more  than  words  have  we  said 
And  more  than  songs  have  we  sung! 


fss) 


DIRGE 

Oh !  take  your  flowers  from  his  grave, 

You  custom-guided  people. 
And  still  the  bells  that  now  disturb 

The  owls  in  the  steeple. 

He  would  not  have  the  flowers  die 

As  he  has  died  for  you, 
Torn  in  his  bloom  from  a  place  in  the  sun 

There  is  nothing  you  can  do ! 


[56] 


A  GIPSY  SONG  IN  THE  CITY 

You  have  turned  my  feet  from  the  open  road 
And  the  hills  where  the  winds  are  calling. 

Would  you  hold  me  here  in  the  youth  of  the  Year 
When  the  apple  blooms  are  falling 

Pink  and  white  by  the  Bluebird's  nest, 

When  rainbows  come  from  the  heart  of  the  West? 

When  the  grasses  stir  and  the  maiden  Willow 

Suns  her  hair,  and  the  young  Earth's  breast 

Is  as  soft  and  sweet  as  any  pillow 

Where  Israfel's  head  may  rest? 

You  have  turned  my  feet  from  the  open  road 

But  back  again  they  are  turning, 
And  with  laugh  and  shout  my  heart  goes  out 

To  the  places  of  its  yearning. 
It  scatters  the  dew  by  the  pasture  bars 
And  it  laughs  where  the  violets  cover  the  scars 
On  the  brow  of  the  hill,  and  where  nooks  are  shady 
It  dances  with  fauns,  and  nothing  mars 
Its  crystal  dreams  of  a  lovely  lady 
Who  shall  come  to  my  tent  of  Stars ! 


[57] 


SONG 

Sometimes  your  love's  a  Rainbow 
Arching  my  world  for  me, 

Sometimes  your  love's  a  white  ship 
Coming  in  from  sea. 

The  Rainbow  goes,  the  white  ship 

Turns  again  to  sea! 
And  then  your  love's  an  angel 

That  brings  them  back  to  me. 


[58] 


A  FATHER  AND  HIS  DEAD  SON 

0  little,  white,  still  son 

Lying  upon  your  little,  white,  still  bed, 

Never  to  laugh  and  run 

Among  the  wind-blown  flowers  blue  and  red 

Nor  chase  the  butterflies 

With  gold  and  purple  wings, 

Nor  want  the  rainbow  in  the  skies, 

Have  you  found  lovelier  things? 

What  dreams  I  dreamed  of  you! 

1  saw  you  go  down  the  white  road  of  Years — 
Now  even  dreams  can  do 

Nothing  but  trace  the  empty  miles  with  tears. 

You  will  not  look  at  me, 

Yet  on  your  face  there  gleams 

A  sweet,  faint  smile.     Oh !  can  it  be 

You  have  found  dearer  dreams? 


O  little,  white,  still  son, 

The  beautiful  home  that  I  had  planned  for  you ! 

The  windows,  every  one 

Looking  on  something  wonderful  to  view, 

[59] 


Till  you  at  last  could  see 
All  things  beneath  the  dome 
Of  vast  blue  sky.     Oh !  can  it  be 
You  have  found  a  happier  home? 

0  little,  white,  still  son, 

The  deep,  grave,  hopeful  love  you  woke  in  me ! 

1  dreamed  somewhere  was  one, 

Born  lovely  for  you,  who  would  come  to  be 
Your  mate  some  blossomy  spring, 
While  star-blooms  spread  above. 
Oh!  do  you  need  no  earthly  thing 
Having  found  a  vaster  Love? 


LIKE  THE  WIND   IN   THE   DUNES 

The  wind  came  into  the  dunes 
And  shifted  the  weary  sand — 

As  if  it  sought  old  patterns 
Of  a  loved,  remembered  land. 

A  mood,  like  the  wind,  found  my  heart 
And  shifted  the  dreams  it  knew 

As  if  to  find  lost  glories 
And  beauties  that  were  you ! 


[61] 


ON  THE  ROAD  WITH  THE  MORNING 

Heigh-ho  !    The  winds  blow 

Down  the  Road  that  gleams 
As  if  bands  of  fairies  scattered 

All  their  packs  of  Dreams 
In  their  flight  when  Dawn's  first  light 

Danced  on  singing  water. 
And  I  go,  with  dream-robe  tattered, 
With  a  shield  the  years  have  battered, 
Where  has  passed  the  laughing  daughter 

Of  the  fairy  king — 

And  for  joy  I  sing: 


"Heigh-ho!    The  winds  blow 

Alike  for  man  and  fairy — 
As  if  nothing  really  mattered 

But  that  hearts  be  airy ! 
Sunbeams  pass  across  the  grass 

And  in  the  boughs  above  me. 
Lo !    They  mend  with  gold  my  tattered 
Robe  of  Dreams,  and  gems  are  scattered 
At  my  feet.    The  Road  must  love  me 

That  it  squanders  so 

Treasures  where  I  go !" 


THE  CITY  IN   THE  DESERT 

He,  whom  Life  drove  from  the  City, 
In  the  desert  came  to  die, 

And  Death,  though  not  in  pity, 
Reared  a  city  in  the  sky 

For  him  to  see  in  silence 
Before  all  light  passed  by. 

He  saw  great  hazy  towers 
All  of  dull  lights  and  hues, 

Like  stuff  of  withered  flowers, 
Pale  purples  and  thinned  blues, 

All  casting  ghostly  shadows 
On  endless  avenues. 

He  saw  the  hazy    towers 
Where  no  one  human  came 

To  use  their  puny  powers 
For  nobleness  or  shame. 

He  saw  a  magic  city 
Where  none  could  bless  or  blame. 

He  saw  ethereal  places 

Back  from  the  endless  street, 

[63] 


But  neither  forms  nor  faces 
Seemed  anywhere  to  meet — 

Only  the  dizzy  wavelets 

Surged  outward  from  the  heat. 

He  saw  frail,  giddy  spires 

Lift  in  the  rocking  sky, 
Touched  with  weird  lights  and  fires 

Forever  passing  by, 
And  wharves  all  still  and  empty 

Where  long  pale  sands  were  dry. 

He  saw  no  stir  of  gladness 
Down  the  endless  avenues, 

No  sign  of  strife  or  sadness 
Stirred  those  unearthly  hues. 

And  over  all  the  city 

Pale  purples  and  thinned  blues ! 

There  in  the  desert  lonely 

Over  the  shifting  sands, 
He  cried,  "I  can  see  only 

A  city  that  empty  stands — 
Empty  as  hearts  when  broken, 

Empty  as  empty  hands !" 

"Empty  of  all  I  wanted, 

Towers  and  avenues, 
Empty  the  houses  haunted 

With  all  infernal  hues — 

[64] 


A  hell  where  demons  painted 
Pale  purples  and  thinned  blues!" 

And  Death,  though  not  in  pity, 
Closed  his   half -maddened  eyes, 

Wiped  out  the  swaying  city, 
The  dizzy  desert  skies — 

And  who  knows  but  thereafter 
He  looked  on  Paradise! 


PURPLE 

Purple  grapes  hung  in  the  purpling  gloom. 

Frail  purple  flowers  swayed  in  the  musky  grass. 

I  caught  a  breath  of  passionate  perfume, 

And  saw  you  pass 

(A  shadow  in  motion,  a  drifting  purple  hue) 

And  I  reached  out  my  arms  and  called  to  you — 

Only  to  lose  you  in  purpling  shadows  that  between  us 

came. 
Nothing   I    heard  but   the  autumn   winds   whispering 

your  name. 
Maddened  I  rushed  to  find  you,  to  hold  you  in  my 

caress, 

But  my  open  arms  closed  only  on  purple  emptiness. 
I  called. .  .No  answer  came. 
Nothing  I  heard  but  the  autumn  winds  whispering 

your  name. 


[66] 


INTERLUDE 

Upon  the  wall  of  shimmer-sky 

Climb  roses  of  the  Dawn, 
And  clouds,  like  gorgeous  birds  go  by, 

Forever  on  and  on 
Unto  the  cryptic  vales  and  steeps 
Where  no  one  sows  and  no  one  reaps. 

If  I  could  climb  that  lofty  wall 
(So  raptured  dawn- winds  tell) 

Oh !  I  would  hear,  o'er  whispers  all, 
The  harp  of  Israfel 

With  notes  like  rose  leaves  falling  through 

A  space  of  star-dust  and  of  dew. 

But,  Love,  could  I  not  bear  to  you 

One  little  dawn-rose  fair, 
One  note  that  Israfel  sent  through 

The  gardens  of  the  air, 
I  would  not  wish  to  climb  the  skies 
Beyond  your  smile,  beyond  your  eyes. 


[67] 


BEYOND   HIS    MEANS 

The  short  trial  ended  and  the  verdict  came. 
Then  voices  droned  and  then  a  silence  fell 
As  Gordon  Courtland  bowed  beneath  his  shame 
Was  led  back  to  his  cell. 
An  old  man  near  me  said,  "This  is  like  hell 
For  his  poor  parents.     Man,  he  left  his  teens 
Only  a  few  years  back.    He  started  well — 
Then  lived  beyond  his  means  .  .  ." 

And  I  could  not  forget  young  Courtland's  face, 
The  high,  white  brow,  dark  eyes  and  the  pale  cheek, 
The  full  lips  that  could  smile  in  ready  grace, 
The  chin  so  nearly  weak. 
It  was  the  face  of  one  who  went  to  seek 
Life's  gold  and  was  won  by  the  gleam  of  dross, 
A  face  not  beautiful  for  being  meek, 
Nor  scarred  beneath  a  Cross ! 

So,  one  year  out  of  college,  Courtland  fell 
For  his  wild  dreams  into  the  pit  of  things 
To  have  his  heart  seared  in  the  heat  of  hell. 
Again  the  poor  moth's  wings 
Have  touched  the  flame,  again  a  cruel  Fate  sings 
Over  a  broken  thread — and  so  it  goes! 

[68] 


There  is  a  price  to  pay  that  sometimes  brings 
To  us  another's  woes ! 

Who  is  to  blame?    Let  us  go  where  he  went 
Through  these  young  years  and  see  what  we  may  see . 
This  was  his  Home,  and  here  the  twig  was  bent — 
And  now  the  twig's  a  tree! 

The  stained  glass  windows !    How  they  stare  at  me ! 
Here  at  the  very  start  we  find  a  clue — 
The  light  of  heaven  struck  them  but  to  be 
Colored  as  it  passed  through ! . . . 

This  is  the  School  where  first  his  feet  were  set 
Upon  the  new  roads.     How  did  it  fail  him  then? 
In  leading  out  the  mind  does  it  forget 
The  heart  in  little  men? 
Somehow,  it  seems  if  he  were  here  again 
Some  one  could  find  a  surer  way  to  teach 
What  is  worth  while  to  guide  the  judgment  when 
Some  things  are  out  of  reach. 

This  is  the  Church  his  parents  forced  on  him 
Before  he  thought  of  God  in  his  own  way. . . 
Did  he  hear  any  prayer  or  mighty  hymn 
That  made  him  want  to  pray? 
Even  here  Pride  and  Jealousy  held  sway, 
And  costly  raiment  came  here  from  the  marts. 
He  saw  fair  women  in  a  vain  display 
Hide  something  in  their  hearts. . . 

[69] 


This  is  the  College  where  men  are  wise. 
Has  it,  too,  failed  him?    Or  was  he  to  blame? 
Does  not  it  not  offer  too  much  to  the  eyes 
And  carp  too  much  to  Name? 
And  does  it  bow  too  low  to  empty  fame 
And  prate  of  Vision  and  love  Money  more? 
However  it  may  be,  his  is  the  shame ! 
Here  all  is  as  before !  .  .  . 

This  is  the  Bank.    He  learned  of  finance  here. 

The  crooked  deals  he  saw !    The  little  schemes ! 

Can  it  be  that  his  vision  was  not  clear? 

That  these  crept  into  Dreams? 

And  yet  the  Bank  is  upright,  so  it  seems, 

For  it  has  nobly  sent  him  to  a  cell. 

How  will  the  balance  be  when  fire  gleams 

On  old  accounts  in  hell? 

This  is  the  City.    Here  he  went  the  pace 

The  people  set  for  him,  and  laughed  his  way 

Through  wealth  and  lust  to  many  a  pretty  face 

In  home  and  cabaret. 

Is  it  all  his,  this  debt  he  has  to  pay? 

As  went  the  evidence  it  seems  to  be ! 

Or  might  it  be  nearer  correct  to  lay 

It  to  Society? 

O  throng  that  dances  on  the  shifting  sands, 
Do  you  not  see  that  some  one  falls  each  day 

[70] 


Spent  and  alone,  with  empty,  groping  hands? 

Have  you  no  price  to  pay? 

What  of  each  drop  of  blood  that  slips  away 

A  Nation's  strength  when  these  you  trample  bleed? 

The  years  are  long — and  t his  is  but  a  day ! 

O  mirth-mad  hosts,  take  heed! 


SHADOWS 

In  the  large  room  was  gaiety  and  light 
And  laughter  louder  than  a  song  should  be. 
I  watched  the  well-dressed  people  making  free 
With  Life,  and  then  I  passed  into  the  night. 
The  curtained  windows  of  the  room  had  might 
To  hold  my  eyes.    And  there  in  front  of  me 
Came  shadows  and  passed  shadows,  ceaselessly 
Acting  a  tableau  that  burned  in  my  sight. 

I  thought  of  the  gay  room,  the  near-content, 
The  sharpened  laughter,  and  the  lure  of  eyes, 
The  joy  of  pride,  the  efforts  made  to  please. 
The  windows  held  me.     Shadows  came  and  went 
Upon  the  curtains  while  the  brooding  skies 
Sent  down  a  wind  that  chuckled  in  the  trees. 


[72] 


TO  JULIA 
Aged  Seven 

What  wonderland  have  you  been  through? 

You,  with  your  heart  so  full  of  dreams. 
Its  magic  lingers  over  you. 

I  hear  the  laughter  of  its  streams 
Within  your  laughter,  and  its  skies 
Leave  dawn  and  moon-rise  in  your  eyes. 

What  Palaces  have  you  in  Spain? 

Princess  of  childhood's  golden  hours! 
I  know  the  rainbow  o'er  the  plain 

Reflects  the  glory  of  their  towers. 
And  oh,  my  worldly  heart  bows  down 
To  kiss  the  hem  of  your  white  gown. 

And  may  the  years  not  take  from  you 
Your  Wonderland,  and  may  the  rain 

Of  coming  years  let  rainbows  through 
Upon  your  Palaces  in  Spain. 

And  may  God  smite  with  sword  that  gleams 

The  one  that  dares  to  rob  your  dreams! 

And  may  my  worldly  heart  bow  down 
To  kiss  the  hem  of  your  white  gown! 

[73] 


SONG 

The    Moon   was    silver   over   the    silver   willow 
In  the  garden  by  the  sea, 

And  each  fairy  had  a  rosebud  for  a  pillow 
Up  in  the  red  rose  tree, 

And  each  had  a  lute  with  silver  strings 

That  held  the  wonder  and  lure  of  things. 
And  the  Wind  took  up  the  tune, 
Till  the  Child  cried  out  to  his  Mother, 
"O  Mother,  I  want  the  Moon, 
The  Moon,  the  Moon,  the  Moon!" 
But  I  heard  the  voice  of  the  Mother, 
As  soft  as  the  winds  above, 
"Hush,  little  man,  there's  not  another 
Thing  as  good  as  Love !" 


(74] 


SONG 

A  hurry  of  wings  past  the  sunset's  gold, 
A  flurry  of  cloud-ships  touched  with  fire! 

And  my  heart  goes  out  all  glad  and  bold, 
Swift  on  the  wings  of  an  old  desire. 

A  flutter  of  wings  as  they  sink  to  rest 

In  the  nesting  place  where  the  young  have  grown, 

And  my  mad  heart  still  toward  the  darkening  West 
Goes  through  the  silence  alone,  alone. 

A  whisper  of  winds  \vhere  the  waters  roam 
With  an  undersong  in  the  hush  and  dew! 

And  my  mad  heart  far  on  its  flight  from  home 
Suddenly  calls,  like  a  child,  for  you. 


OF   DREAMS 
i. 

THE  DREAMS   OF  ONE  DEAD 

What  has  become  of  all  the  glorious  dreams 

That  once  thrilled  in  this  heart  now  ever  still? 

Have  they  gone  with  the  dead  unto  the  hill 

Or  gone  with  the  free  soul  some  place  where  gleams 

The  trace  of  star-dust  washed  by  astral  streams 

On  bars  of  Light  beyond  the  mortal  will, 

Beyond  our  vision  in  the  years  until 

Death  works  a  change  within  the  theme  of  themes? 

If  they  have  joined  the  earth  upon  the  brow 
Of  the  wise  hill  they  may  inspire  the  dust 
To  give  new  glory  from  the  sunny  sod. 
If  they  have  followed  with  the  soul,  and  now 
Find  glory  even  beyond  their  hope  and  trust, 
How  they  must  long  to  tell  us  more  of  God ! 

ii. 

THE  GLORY  OF  DREAMS 

But  if  Death  is  the  end  of  all  in  all, 
And  if  there  is  no  soul  that  flies  at  last 
Beyond  our  wander-ways  to  places  vast 
Where  constellations,  not  men,  rise  and  fall, 

[76] 


Then  these  dreams,  though  bound  in  a  region  small, 
Worried  with  doubts,  and  often  overcast 
With  clouds  blown  from  the  chill  waste  of  the  Past, 
Have  glory  enough  for  growing  proud  and  tall. 

Even  as  blooms  and  trees,  even  as  grain, 
They  grew  from  out  the  dark  into  the  light, 
Bringing  new  worth  unto  the  native  sod. 
They  knew  the  beauty  of  the  dancing  rain, 
They  knew  the  whispers  of  the  winds  at  night, 
And,  knowing  these,  they  knew  something  of  God. 

ill. 

THE  IMMORTALITY  OF  DREAMS 

Some  hearts  are  as  the  sod  and  dreams  like  these 
Are  as  the  seed  the  dead  stalk  leaves  the  Earth. 
Their  kind  will  live,  and  thrilling  with  new  birth, 
Take  an  alloted  place  with  stones  and  trees. 
Nothing  so  true,  for  all  Life's  miseries, 
For  all  its  doubt,  for  its  misguided  mirth, 
Will  pass  and  leave  with  us  a  dreaded  dearth 
While  the  Unseen  works  magic  where  He  sees. 

Oh !  is  there  not,  then,  Immortality 

Even  in  such  a  simple  life  as  this? 

Is  it  not  glorious?     Is  it  not  well 

That  Truth  and  Hope  and  Beauty  still  may  be 

For  dreams  long  dreamed,  long  lived,  although  we  miss 

The  Dreamer  while  he  works  his  miracle? 

(77} 


'c. 


